


Moving Pictures

by TypeHeartsWriter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Smut, My First Smut, Post-War, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2018-12-07 19:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 10,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11630313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TypeHeartsWriter/pseuds/TypeHeartsWriter
Summary: George and Helen remember times from before the war took Fred away.





	1. Fred & George's First Christmas

He used to laugh. I loved his laugh. He didn’t laugh so much anymore. Not since Fred died.  
I found him one night sitting on Fred’s bed above the shop, shuffling his hands around an old shoebox.  
“What are you doing, love?”  
He didn’t look up. I leaned against the doorframe.  
“George?”  
“Hmm?”  
“What are you doing?”  
“Nothing.”  
“What’s in the box?”  
“Nothing.”  
I took a step closer. He still hadn’t looked at me, but he pulled the box closer with his finger.  
“Georgie, come on.”  
“Dinner?”  
“Oh. Well… Well, it’s only two, but your mother owled. She wants to know if you’ll come for dinner around six.”  
“Fine.” He pushed the lid onto the box and set it on his pillow. “I’ll get ready.”  
“For four hours in advance? You’re a wizard, George.”  
“I’ll get ready.” He walked into the bathroom. I heard the shower go on and I sat on his bed, head in my hands.  
I knew he was taking Fred’s death horribly. Of course he would. His other half – I didn’t even come that close. I ran the pad of my thumb over the diamond he gave me two Christmases ago.  
My eyes fell on the shoebox. My fingertips slid across the edge of the lid and played with the fraying cardboard on the corner. I pushed the lid up with my fingernail until it fell away to the side. There were photographs inside, all old and folded and curling around the edges. Most were from their childhood, featuring the twins with an occasional appearance from another redheaded Weasley; a few had me in the frame; and one was mine. I picked the top one up and flipped it over. My father always wrote on the back of photographs when I was a child, and whoever’s neat pen this was had done the same.

 _25 December 1978: Fred & George’s First Christmas_  
Two infants with a mass of red hair lie on a red and green knit blanket. Both smile; one sucks his thumb and the other reaches for the camera. I smiled at the babies and thumbed the torn upper corner. To be honest, I hoped it wasn’t long until there was another picture like this one.

The bathroom door opened.  
“Helen?”  
I forced my eyes away from the babies. “Yes, love? I thought you were going in for a shower.”  
“I… I need to shave for Mum and I…”  
“I’ll help you.”  
He hadn’t looked in a mirror since Fred. He’d only shaved once and nearly cut his other ear off. I returned the photo to the box and shut it as he had.  
He took my hand when I was within reach. Our eyes met and I raised a hand to stroke his beard.  
“I like this, you know.”  
He sighed. “Mum’ll think I’m not doing well.”  
“Are you?”  
“What?”  
“Are you doing well?”  
“Do you think I am?”  
“Do you want me to answer that?” I picked up his shaving cream.  
He sighed and his eyes closed slowly as I shaved his face. When I’d finished all but his upper lip, I wiped off the excess cream.  
“Are you done already?” he asked.  
“Depends. Can we keep the mustache?”  
He ran a hand through his hair and over his face. “I can finish if you don’t want to.”  
“No. No, I’ll do it. I understand.”  
He closed his eyes again, squeezing them tight and releasing. He didn’t have to hold back his tears for me and I know he knew that. I think he was just so tired of crying.  
“All done,” I whispered.  
“Thank you.”  
“Of course, love.”  
He turned and pulled off his shirt and undid his belt. “I won’t be long, promise.”  
“Sure. Okay.” I closed the door behind me.


	2. The Background Image

I returned to his bed and pulled the shoebox into my lap. A wildly moving photograph stuck out to one side. I picked it up, and two that slid out with it, stuck together with a paperclip.

 

_August 1989: Percy, Fred & George at Diagon Alley_

This one must have been from just before their first year. The twins waved their wands in Percy’s face, one on his back; the other turned to the camera and stuck his tongue out, running towards it before the picture reset.

 

I laughed a bit and shuffled to the next photograph.

 

_1 September 1989: Fred & George’s First Year_

Fred and George waved from in front of the Hogwarts Express; Charlie threw his arms around their shoulders; Percy walked in at the last second, saying something.

 

_1 September 1989: Fred & George’s First Year_

Fred and George waved from a window in the train. Ginny waved at them from the platform.

 

The water shut off. I tucked the pictures back into their paperclip and set them back in the box; just as I reached for the lid, another image caught my attention. It was a picture of a young Harry Potter looking rather uncomfortable. I flipped the photograph over. There was no description, but a name signed in a young, boyish scrawl: _Colin Creevey_.

George came out of the bathroom.

“Georgie, why do you have a picture of Harry?”

“Why are you looking at those?”

“You were. I was curious. I – was I wrong to look at them?”

He paused. “No. They’re just… memories, that’s all.”

“And you needed to remember Harry?”

“Look in the background.”

Over Harry’s right shoulder – just a little blurry – was a redheaded boy leaning over a brunette hiding her face in her robes, his hand on the tree behind her. I remembered this day. Fall of George’s fourth year and my third. He asked me out with cheesy pick-up lines and took me to Zonko’s in Hogsmeade.

“How’d you get this?”


	3. From the Picture

Muggle Studies was only mildly mind numbing that day. I don’t even know what compelled me to take it as a half-blood raised by in my muggle father’s hometown. The upside was that George had a class in the room across the corridor and we were released at the same time that day.

“Hey, Smithe. What have you been up to?”

“The oh-so-fascinating studies of muggle Prime Ministers. And you?”

“Wasn’t paying attention. Sun’s out today. Do you want to go down by the lake before your next class steals you away from me forever?”

“Hardly doubt you’ll never see me again, Weasley.”

“Oh, but who can tell? You are a Hufflepuff, after all.”

“And you sneak down to the kitchens every other night. Could just go one door over.”

He laughed at that.

The sun hit us like a quaffle the second we made it outside.

“Better get in the shade or you’ll burn,” I said.

“What do you mean? I’m invincible.”

“Aren’t gingers known for getting sunburn?”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

I’d only noticed his smirk half a second before my back was up against a tree and he was towering over me.

“Well, you’ve got me here,” I said. “Now what?”

“ _Well_ , I’ve written a poem and I’d like your opinion.”

Interesting. “Go ahead.”

He cleared his throat: “Roses are red; my face is, too; but that only happens when I’m around you.”

I tried not to laugh. “Really, Weasley?”

“You see, there’s no doubt you’re a witch.”

“What tipped you off?”

“ _Let me finish_ – because you’ve got me under your spell!”

I laughed, covering my mouth with my hand.

“There’s more where those came from, Smithe: if you were a dementor, I’d become a criminal just to get your kiss.”

I laughed harder, bringing my robe up around my face. His hand softly came up my arm and pulled my robe down.

“Come on now, your smile’s too pretty to hide.”

One brow shot up. “That one didn’t sound like a joke.”

“None of it was, Smithe.”


	4. The Proposal

He sat next to me. “I saw the flash go off and found Creevey later. You could ask the kid to see his pictures of Harry Potter and before you even got the question out, he’d have an album in your hands. That picture was about twenty pages in, but I asked him if I could have it in exchange for some quality time with Harry.”

“Did you follow through?”

“Course I did, but don’t tell Harry that was me.”

I laughed. He offered a half smile, as much to be expected, even now. My laugh died down and the quiet overwhelmed us. I pushed the box into his lap.

“What else do you have in here, Georgie?”

He coughed. “Uh, here,” he muttered, pulling out a photo from the bottom of the pile. It’s the only one that hasn’t been bent, a date in his messy handwriting at the bottom.

 

_25 December 1996_

            George, standing from his position on one knee, a diamond in one hand and my hand in his other. We both look ecstatic. Fred bounds in and hugs me before George.

 

I smiled. “My favorite day.”

“It’s my second.”

“What’s your favorite day then?”

“It’ll be the day we get married.”

I leaned my head on his shoulder, running the backs of my fingers along the edge of the photograph. The last Christmas we were all together, since last Christmas was still hell with the war.

“It’ll still be my favorite Christmas.”

“Mine, too, Hel.”

“Do you think Christmas will be okay this year?”

He was quiet. His whole body was: he held his breath; my head fell down to his chest as he leaned back, but his heart was slow; he stretched his fingers and created the only sound in the room by way of his fingernails scratching against his jeans.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“No,” he said, standing up. “You shouldn’t have to be. I shouldn’t be like this.”

“Grieving is grieving, George. It’s okay.”

“But it isn’t. I can’t do anything anymore. All I have left is this stupid box because I can’t look at my own fucking reflection. It’s killing me. It’s…”

“But the pictures…”

“We’re so young. We don’t – I don’t look like that anymore. Except for the proposal, it’s all from when we were younger. It’s bearable and I need it. I don’t know why but I need it. I can’t handle this, Helen. I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“We’ll figure it out, Georgie.”

“I’m afraid. I’m afraid to go to dinner and I’m afraid to look in a mirror and I’m afraid to get married without him as my best man.”

“Okay. Okay, let’s start with dinner.”

“I don’t want to hurt her. Any of them.”

“Your mum?”

“Yeah,” he whispered. His voice broke.

“She wants to see you. She asked for you.”

“Okay. Sure. Fine.” He slid his hand over his face.


	5. From the Picture

“Oh, George, give Helen her present now. Please?” Molly had been insistent all night on getting to Christmas presents, but she hadn’t stopped when we’d all gotten our jumpers.

“Yeah, Georgie, what’s got everyone all excited?”

He smiled at me. “Stand here, Ms. Smithe, if you would.”

I stood in the center of the room.

“Oh, that’s perfect, Helen. Right in front of the trees. The lights make you sparkle!” And now she’d gotten her camera out.

George stood in front of me and cleared his throat, smoothing out the G on his chest.

“You know,” he started, “I’m very lucky to have met you and that you agreed to accompany me to Hogsmeade back in school – didn’t even need a potion for any of it. And there’s no one I’d rather call my girlfriend even if I could use a potion –”

“George!”

“Sorry, Mum. Anyway, there’s no one I’d rather call my girlfriend. And no one I’d rather call my wife. I know neither of us played Keeper at Hogwarts, but I’d like to Keep you if you’ll let me.” He knelt down on one knee and presented a diamond on a silver band.

“Yes.”

I watched him stand but was instead bombarded by another very similarly-looking ginger.

“I’ve always wanted a sister!” Fred screamed.

“Hey!” Ginny shouted.

We received a round of congratulations from the family.

“Fred, can I get a moment with my future wife?”

Fred scoffed, hand to his chest. “Can’t _I_ get a moment with your future wife? I’m important, too, you know!”

“Yes, incredibly, now move.” He shoved Fred away by the face and the two laughed.

I kissed him and he took me by the hand to the corner of the room. Molly had started coddling Harry again and we were altogether unnoticeable again.

“Come with me,” he whispered, leading me upstairs to his room. He locked the door behind us.

The curtains were drawn away from the window, the moon in the center of our view from his bed. The light came in and played across Fred’s sheets by the window. I leaned against George’s chest, my head tucked under his chin.

“I love you so much,” he whispered.

“I figured, given the proposal and all.”

“Shut up.” He pushed me against the bed, hovering over me.

“Make me,” I whispered against his lips.

“You’ll have to shut up, Hel. Family’s downstairs. Can’t let Mum know you’ve ruined her poor boy’s innocence.”

“Who ever thought _you_ were innocent, George?”

“Well, there’s a difference between pranking Filch and whoring around, Helen. Now shut up; you’re killing the _mood_.” He kissed me.

His lips covered mine so tightly, as if there had never been a space between them to begin with. His hands, fingers pushing against my skin, slid down my arms and the sides of my torso; they came back up, thumbs coming around to cup my breasts.

“Mmph – I want you, Helen.”

“You have me. You have me.” I brought my arms down around his neck, my hands sneaking down to pull at his shirt.

He sat up some, my grip on his shirt pulling it over his head. When his head came back down to me, he attached his lips to my throat, sucking and nipping at my skin. I let out a breathy moan and he returned his mouth to mine to keep me quiet. He edged the hem of my blouse up, fingers tickling the skin above my jeans. I scraped my nails lightly along his back. He smiled against my lips – a wide, toothy grin as usual; when our teeth hit, his smile went away and his tongue dove into my mouth. His hands came around my back, under my shirt, and up to my shoulder blades. Fingers dipping under my bra straps, he slid one down my shoulder and unhooked the band. I pushed him up and pulled my shirt off, my bra clinging to the material and coming off with it. He kissed down my neck and collarbone, between my breasts, sliding his mouth down my torso with his hands softly following. He pressed a kiss to my hip while he unbuttoned my jeans and pushed them down my legs.

“A thong?”

“You like thongs.”

“I know,” he said, kissing along the lace. “Red looks nice on you.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re a Gryffindor.”

“And because it’s true. Did the bra match?”

“No, it was green.”

He looked up at me.

“Christmas colors.”

“You’re killing the mood again.”

“You asked!”

He sat up and climbed up my body to kiss my nose, tucking his thumb under the sides of my underwear and pulling them off.

“You’re okay, right? With this?” he asked.

“Yes, Georgie. I want you.”

He smiled and kissed me hard, muffling our moans when he slid inside me. Between softer kisses and mouths running up and down necks, we whispered each other’s names into the air. Our bodies glistened in the moonlight.

“Helen, I’m… I’m…”

“Together then?”

“It’d be an honor.” He shot me another toothy grin, still pushing himself into me.

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

I pulled his face to mine and kissed him. With one last thrust, we came together; we stayed like that until we could breathe again.

“Quick,” he said with a pant. “Put something on.”

“The door’s locked, George. Who’s going to walk in?”

“Fred and Bill share the room for Christmas, remember?”

I raised my brows. “And they can’t put two and two together?”

“Fred’d do anything to embarrass us.”

“Point well made.” I slid on my nightdress and came back to bed.

With a kiss on my cheek, George fell straight asleep, holding onto me and subconsciously rubbing his thumb over my ring. I tucked my head into the crook of his neck and closed my eyes.


	6. The Burrow

We arrived at the Burrow precisely two minutes early, as was my habit. I debated knocking, but the door was open, and George was her son after all. He had just grabbed the knob when the door swung open to reveal Molly with a smile; enveloping her son in a hug in the same move she used to open the door, she pulled him inside.

“I saw the clock. It’s so good to see you. Don’t stay away so long, George.” She released him. “And, Helen, you’re glowing as ever.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley.”

“I told you to call me Mum and I’ll have nothing less. Marrying my boy!”

“Yes, ma’am.” I kissed her cheek and followed George into the kitchen.

“Now, have you picked a date for the wedding? I think we could all use some happy goings on!”

George and I shared a brief look. He sat at the kitchen table.

I coughed, putting my hand on his shoulder. “No, we discussed spending some more time on the shop first. And then… well, with the war going on, we didn’t have much time to plan anything. And after the funeral…”

Molly’s face went cold.

“I don’t even have a dress,” I covered.

Her smile returned, but her eyes were still partly lost in thoughts of Fred.

George looked up at me. “You don’t?”

I shook my head.

“You can wear mine,” she said. “It’ll have to be tailored some, but I have it just upstairs.”

Up in the attic, after we had shooed away the ghoul to another corner, Molly opened a white box and unfolded an old, laced up dress and veil.

“I didn’t even know we still had it until we rebuilt the attic. It’s amazing it wasn’t destroyed when the Death Eaters attacked. We lost some other things, but everything’s back in order now.”

“It’s perfect, _mum_ ,” I said, feeling the lace between my fingers. “Thank you.”

“Of course, dear. You two just focus on planning and I’ll finish dinner.”

I smiled and followed her and George down the stairs. George veered off to his room when we reached the landing. I paused. He didn’t quite make it past the doorway.

“How long’s it been?” he asked.

“Since you were here?”

“Since… Since he…”

“Hush, love. Almost four months.”

“I stopped counting the days. Is that bad?”

“Not at all, Georgie.”

“I’ve been so lost.”

“That’s okay. That’s why you have me.”

He hummed.

“Do you want to go in?”

He thought for a minute. “No. I don’t think I can. But there’s something I want in there.”

“Where is it? I’ll get it for you if you want.”

He pointed to his old school trunk among the boxes he and Fred used to store things for the joke shop.

“Is it a product?”

“No, I kept personal things in that one. There’s a muggle prank book.”

I smiled, hoping he’d want to get back into work. He’d been quiet around the shop and no new products had made their way to the shelves since they closed their doors to the war. I hadn’t seen him near one of his old diagrams since late April even.

There were a number of books and diagrams and things his mother had knit in the trunk. A bright orange one stuck out: _101 Pranks_ , with the word _Muggle_ written in ink at the top. I picked up the book and handed it to George, kissing him on the cheek as I closed the door to his old room.

“Okay?”

He nodded.

Downstairs, Ginny had set the table and Molly was coming to sit, followed by floating dishes full of food. Arthur sat at the head, George to his right. He stared at his son with a sad smile; something – rather, someone – was missing and an extravagant reminder was at dinner tonight. Poor Georgie was conscious of this, not looking up from his plate. His hands clenched under the table. He reached over with one and held mine in my lap. I stroked my thumb across his knuckles.

“Helen,” Ginny said from across the table, “Mum said you’re wearing her wedding dress!”

“Yes, isn’t it lovely?”

Molly sat down. Smiling, she said, “Let’s eat before it gets cold, shall we? Fred, would you pass the –”

Ginny gasped.

Arthur’s hand fell to the table.

George’s eyes clenched shut.

I held his hand tighter.

“Excuse me,” he said. He got up from the table, all but running outside. He’d taken the prank book.


	7. In the Garden

“I didn’t mean anything!” Molly was in hysterics. “I didn’t! Oh, I’m so sorry! Why did I think that? Oh, Arthur!”

Arthur tried to comfort her, but she was near inconsolable: she rocked in her chair, crying into her napkin. He stroked her hair and made shushing noises. Ginny hadn’t moved.

I quietly got out of my chair and followed George’s path. He wasn’t anywhere out in the open, but I saw a mop of orange hair sticking up from behind a bush in the garden. A gnome raced in front of me as I made my way to him.

Tears clung to his cheeks and he held the book to him with white-knuckled hands, sandwiched between his chest and his knees, but other than that he was utterly expressionless.

“Georgie Porgie?” That used to make him smile, laugh even.

I sat next to him, our backs against a line of fence.

“She never could tell us apart.”

I didn’t even know what to say. I was afraid to joke about his ear with him in such a state. I hadn’t said Fred’s name out loud to him since the day he died; and though I knew his thoughts were never far from his twin, I hadn’t heard him say it either.

“Georgie, tell me about the book. Hmm?”

“It’s not the book that I wanted. Not really.”

He pulled it from his chest and opened the front cover. Two pictures were tucked in place. I recognized the top one.

 

_25 December 1994: Yule Ball_

Fred twirled Angelina, showing off her gown. George and I swayed with each other. Creevey had taken the picture for us outside the Gryffindor common room. I never noticed how, though I looked at the camera, George couldn’t take his eyes off mine.

 

“We were so happy back then. I want it back. I want it all back.”

“I know, George. So do I.”


	8. From the Picture

I’d owled my parents for a gown as soon as I could. They sent me the best they could find: an elegant black dress with gold accents. The girls in my dorm all helped each other get ready that night; one girl put my hair up, and another let me borrow some jewelry.

I met George in the corridor by the portrait of the Fat Lady.

“Hello, Georgie. You look rather dashing this evening.”

“Helen! Gorgeous as ever.”

We kissed briefly. Fred and Angelina came out from behind the portrait, holding hands, Colin Creevey in tow.

“Thanks for suggesting me to Harry, Fred. Means a lot. I’d love to take his picture. Who’s he going with again?”

“Not sure, Creevey.”

“Thanks for taking our picture, too, Colin,” Angelina said, smoothing the front of Fred’s dress robes.

“Ready?” Colin brought the camera up to his face. It was a magic one that McGonagall had lent him when she heard people were asking him to take their pictures for the Ball.

I saw the glitter reflecting off Angelina’s dress in my peripheral vision. George swayed me, holding me close to his chest. I smiled in Colin’s direction, still so used to my dad’s muggle camera. The flash nearly blinded us.

I turned my head, George’s face already so close to mine; he laid a kiss to my forehead.

Fred and Angelina walked downstairs just ahead of us. George proffered his arm.

“You really do look gorgeous, Helen. Every day,” he said.

“Thank you. I like seeing you dressed up.”

“You know I’m playing for _Keeps_ , right?”

“Is that supposed to be one of your Quidditch jokes?”

He nodded, barely containing a smile.

“I’m a Chaser. You have noticed that, I trust?”

“Of course I’ve noticed you. I try very hard not to hit any bludgers in your direction.”

“While I appreciate that, I wouldn’t want you losing any games for my sake. I am rather talented at getting the quaffles in.”

“Do you want to stay on your broom or not?”

“I’ll stay on your broom,” I muttered.

“What was that?”

“Nothing!”

He laughed. Nothing I said the rest of the night could wipe that stupid, wonderful smirk off his beautiful face. Not that I wanted it gone, anyway. I loved that look in his eye when he knew I wanted him.


	9. After

“What’s the other one, George?”

He shuffled the second photo on top. I almost laughed, had tears not been threatening my composure.

This one was mine.

 

_25 December 1994_

In a still image, I smiled quite contently. George had smashed his lips on my cheek, eyes scrunched up. We looked positively exhausted but, at the same time, as if we were having the time of our lives.

 

“You kept this?”

“It’s my favorite picture.”

“Oh, Georgie!”

I pulled him into me, his body collapsing into mine. His head landed on my chest and I kissed the top of it. He wrapped his arms around my waist and buried himself into me. I didn’t think such a giant of a man could make himself look so small.

“Come on, love. Tell me about the picture.”

He sniffled. I combed my fingers through his hair.

“Come on. Why is it your favorite?”

“I don’t know,” he said, turning his head out to speak more clearly. “It was my first time taking a muggle picture besides Collin’s, but I didn’t know I was in it. And you were there. You make everything great.”

I held him closer. “Oh, do I?”

“Yeah. Even… I don’t know what I would have done without you after the war. I don’t think I’d still be here.”

I squeezed my eyes shut to keep the tears away. I hummed, afraid my voice would give me away.

“Your heart's beating irregularly, Helen.” He looked up at me.

“You do that to me sometimes.” I kissed his forehead. “Shall we go eat now?”

He lifted himself from me and looked around the garden.

“Yes,” he said. “But you go in first. I’ll be in in a minute.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m better. But I need to… I tried to go to the bathroom earlier. I’m just not ready to face the mirror. Do you think I ever will?”

“I think so.”

He nodded and brushed himself off as he stood.

“So you’re just going to… use the garden?”

He kissed my cheek and tiptoed off to an overgrown area of bushes. I shook my head, returning to the dinner table.


	10. Dinner

Dinner was quiet except for the clanging of silverware against dishes. George ate slowly, pausing between every other bite to focus on the feel of his hand against my thigh. I felt his fingers moving the first time and did the same. He hummed softly.

Arthur finished first. Folding his napkin, he watched Molly. Ginny finished, then me. Molly jabbed her fork around the food and sighed.

“I think I’m done for tonight,” she said quietly.

George set his fork down. “Me, too,” he said.

The dishes levitated back to the kitchen. Molly and Arthur stood at the same time; he guided her upstairs, muttering something about lying down to no one in particular.

Ginny chewed on her bottom lip. “I should finish packing for Hogwarts.”

“Your last year,” George croaked.

She nodded, barely showing a smile. We were all proud of her, of course. Last year. Who wouldn’t be proud? Especially for this _teenager_ to go back after such devastation; to willingly return and eat meals in the room where her brother’s body lied while the end of the war was fought around him; to know she almost died herself; to live in a rebuilt castle where an entire army of dark witches and wizards tried to kill her boyfriend specifically and almost succeeded. She was brave and we were proud, but our bodies and minds and souls still clung to fear and grief and loss. The stone that built Hogwarts would always hold it. All of it. And parts of us would too. She was brave. So brave to go back.

“Do you want to go, love?” I asked, rubbing his back.

“I should wait for Mum. Say goodbye. Right thing to do.” His eyes were out of focus.

“You know I hate to point it out, but –”

“Then don’t. I know what you’re going to say. I’m not well, I need to take care of myself, and I can’t worry about her. But I do. I worry every day about everyone around me. It could have been any of you. It could have been me. Maybe it should have been me. Fred was the favorite between us anyway.”

He said his name.

“George. Don’t you dare.”

“I’ll wait for Mum and say goodbye.”

“And that’s fine, but you need to listen.” I turned him to face me. “Don’t ever wish that it had been you. Please don’t do that to me. The only reason you think Fred was the favorite is because he was the spokesman and you were the brains. That’s how you worked. That’s how your personalities came together for business. Fred and George. That’s who you were. But it happened. It’s not your fault – nowhere near your fault – because some Slytherin asshole decided he should purge the world of impure wizards and one of his corrupted little minions pointed a wand in Fred’s direction. Never blame yourself for that. The war is over, love. And Merlin forbid there’s a third war – which won’t happen in our lifetime if Harry fucking Potter and his militia have anything to say about it. We were part of that, remember? We chose to fight. Fred chose to fight. Death happens in war. It just does. You’re not _un_ well, Georgie; you’re grieving. That’s to be expected. That’s okay. That’s perfectly fucking normal and I will be here with you and for you every step of the way until we die. Grief doesn’t go away, but it does get smaller.”

He was crying and clinging to my shoulders and trying not to do either.

“That was beautiful, Helen.” Arthur had come in at some point.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Would you two like to spend the night? I’m not asking – just offering if you want to. I can make up the couch. We haven’t touched your room, George.”

George nodded, shakily grabbing his napkin. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet and childlike, a child coming home for comfort: “Thanks, Dad.”


	11. From the Picture

The Yule Ball was still going on; we’d left Fred and Angelina on the dance floor. George leaned into me as we walked, smelling my hair and kissing my neck. His hands wandered. We’d made it to the kitchen corridor, where I was meant to head off to the Basement… dorm… bed. I’m sure George was thinking of a bed as well…

I stopped, facing the entrance to the common room; George faced the portrait to the kitchen. He looked at me, his smile brighter than I’d ever seen it before.

“This is the happiest night of my life, you know that?”

I curled myself into his arms. “Mine, too. I love you, Georgie Porgie.”

He laughed. “And I you.”

“I’m so tired.”

“You should go to bed.”

“But I don’t want tonight to end.”

“Then go get in pajamas and come back. We’ll cuddle by the barrels.”

“On a stone floor?”

“Bring a blanket, then! I’m nothing if not romantic.”

I rolled my eyes and tapped the barrels. George slid down the wall as the door opened and I crawled in.

I changed as quickly as possible to get back to George. On my hurried way out, I saw my dad’s muggle camera. I wanted to remember tonight forever – this moment – and see how happy we were no matter what happened in the future. I picked up the old polaroid and returned to the corridor.

“What’s that for?” George asked.

“I wanted to take a picture.”

He folded his arms around my middle and smiled against my temple. “You didn’t like Colin’s picture?”

“This one will be just us.”

“I like just us.”

I held the camera out in front of me. George kissed my cheek. I smiled, the flash went off, and he blew a raspberry before he looked up. The picture came out of the camera and I waited for it to appear, leaning into George’s chest.

“That’s a different kind of picture…”

“It’s a muggle picture, like Colin’s old camera. They just develop differently.”

He pouted. “It doesn’t move.”

“It doesn’t need to.”


	12. Dreamland

I held him while he slept that night. He fell asleep first, whimpering and at some point calling out Fred’s name, his parents’, and mine, before sleep overcame my mind. I dreamt of Fred.

It was the war still, but not the battle at Hogwarts. I was with a Death Eater in a sort of dark, stony cave. Darkness surrounded us. I didn’t have my wand. He was walking toward me, so calm and confident I was sure there was a disgusting smile under his mask.

“Pretty for a filthy little muggle.”

“Don’t touch her!” I didn’t see the owner of the voice, but I heard footsteps running from the end of the tunnel behind the Death Eater.

A blinding green light flashed from the Death Eater’s wand.

I flew backwards, splashing into a puddle. I tried to crawl away and found myself in a hole. I crawled in – not very far – until I hit something soft ahead of me. I pushed.

“I’m coming, pretty.”

I pushed and pushed and pushed for what felt like forever.

“Who was it, bitch?”

The soft thing started to move, scraping along the rocky floor.

“What sort of muggle piece of shit convinced a pureblood to get in the sack?”

My knees were starting to hurt.

“You’re not even a real witch!”

He grabbed my ankle and pulled. I kicked back as hard as I could – I think I hit his face. I brought my legs in close as I continued to crawl.

“Muggle bitch! Does your stupid boyfriend know? Does he know your kind will kill him?”

I pushed my feet against a part of the cave wall that jutted out and pushed the top half of my body against the thing in front of me with all the strength I could muster up. I felt the tips of his fingers against my ankle again. I kicked out with one foot and lost my balance. My body fell forward, one foot pushed against the wall, and the other collided with his mask. I heard the metal clang against the rock. My leg felt warm. I saw a sliver of light above the mass in front of me. I pushed my hand out one last time.

The thing fell in a heap. I reached out for the edge of the opening and pulled myself to it. Below me, crumpled at the bottom of whatever this was, was the body of a boy with red hair.

No.

It couldn’t be.

I’d rather die.

Someone called my name. Another boy with red hair.

Pulling myself to the edge completely, I sat with my legs out. A stream of red ran down one of them.

The redhead stopped, staring at his twin. His whisper echoed off the cave walls: “No.”

Ever so carefully, I dipped a toe down to touch the ground. I climbed down and, trying not to put much pressure on my bleeding leg, I made my way to the body.

Two ears. I didn’t feel much better.


	13. Morning

I woke in a sweat, the bottom half of my body on the floor and the other half on the bed. I clung to George; he was still asleep. It was dark still.

George hummed and hugged me to his chest. I lifted my legs back onto the bed. One leg stung with carpet burn.

“Morning,” he said, eyes half closed.

“Morning.”

“So… Why were you pushing me last night?”

“Oh – erm – bad dream.”

“Was I in it?”

I couldn’t tell him. At least, not now. “No.”

“Not even to save you?”

“I woke up before you could, Georgie Porgie.”

“I love you.” He kissed my nose.

“I love you, too.”

One hand scratched my back and the other followed my arm from my shoulder to my hand, landing at my ring. He pressed a kiss to the top of my head but didn’t move.

“I always worry it isn’t big enough. Girls like big diamonds, don’t they?”

“Sure. Some like rocks, others don’t give a shit.” I paused. “Do you really think _that’s_ my concern? I just want to marry you, stupid.”

“While I’m really glad you said that, I’m still going to get you a bigger ring.”

“Can I still keep this one?”

“Uh… yeah. You want two?”

“Why not? A perfect ring and a bigger perfect ring. Sounds _perfect_.”

He hummed against my head.

“What do you want to do today, Georgie?”

“I think I want to open the shop. For real this time – new jokes and everything.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I think he’d like that. Don’t you?”

“I think he would.”

I felt him smile and he pulled me closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading until now. We're not done, but I'll be away until Sunday. Don't worry - daily chapters will resume on Monday! See you then.


	14. How to Read a Kiss

It had been over a month and I was still having that dream every few nights. I already slept poorly, but now every full night’s sleep ended in a war memory that never happened. I wasn’t even there when Fred died. I didn’t see it. I wish I had. I wish I hadn’t. I wish I could sleep.

I didn’t bring it up to George. He was happy – I think. He still wasn’t smiling. It was an odd sight for me – as well as the customers, I suppose – to see him running a _joke_ shop, selling _pranks_ , surrounded by _bright_ colors and _whimsical_ décor, all with a serious face. You might as well have placed him in a funeral parlor or a doctor’s office or a… He was supposed to be happy now.

Nothing was right. I couldn’t understand why things were okay before the war and completely ruined now that we had gotten peace. Of course, I understood that losing your twin brother was going to have some toll and I’m sure others were having nightmares but the difference almost made me crave the time during the war right before we actually admitted we would have to fight one day. If I could keep the thought of inevitable destruction and emotional trauma deep inside me in exchange for a real smile on George’s face, I’d take it in a heartbeat.

The flat above the shop was quiet, the bedroom especially. George spent all his time downstairs with Ron, working, or in his office alone, working. He needed a distraction, sure, but was this _the_ distraction? Was he okay throwing himself deep in the business that he and Fred had built from the ground up? Was he okay doing Fred’s work too? Ron helped. I helped. Harry stopped by a few times. Ginny offered to work during holidays (Molly added that to the increasingly long list of things ~~Fred and George~~ – shit – George was not allowed to corrupt her with).

“Helen?” George had the door propped open a few inches, just open enough to poke his head through and closed enough to keep the light from blinding me so long after I went to bed.

“Yeah,” I called out.

“You awake?”

_Was_ I? Always. “Yeah.”

“I was thinking… October’s coming up. We’re decorated, but… I don’t know. Should we do something?”

“Do you want to?”

“I don’t know. I feel like they expect something. We haven’t done anything big since the war.”

“You didn’t do anything bigger than usual before the war.”

I sat up as he came to sit at the foot of the bed. He rubbed my leg through the blanket.

“Georgie, no one expects anything out of you. No one should. You just got back into things.”

“I know.”

“Just give it time, love.”

“Okay.” He scooted closer to me and pressed his forehead against mine. “Why are you still awake? It’s almost morning.”

“Why are you?”

“I asked first.”

“I just couldn’t sleep. You know how I am.”

He hummed. “I’ve been thinking about what we could do for Halloween.”

“For five hours?”

He nodded. “You should sleep.”

I rolled my eyes at him. “A novel idea, that one.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, love, don’t be. I wish I could.”

“I wish I could, too.”

“Well, if neither of us can sleep, we might as well not sleep together.”

He kissed me. He didn’t mean it. I knew the difference.

His kisses packed a lot of punch and spoke clearly. Sometimes he repeated himself with words, but it really was so redundant and scarcely used. You couldn’t mistake a kiss from George Weasley. A swift kiss on the cheek or forehead said, “Hello.” These were given to his mother and myself, though he liked to save the forehead for me. Two swift kisses on the lips said, “Hello. Sorry I’m late.” Reserved for me and me only; possibly given to a date before me. A kiss on the lips that engulfed every fiber of your being and picked your feet up straight off the ground: “Hello. I’ve missed you. If we’re ever apart that long again, I may die.” A kiss so quick you may have missed it, on the cheek close to the lips because _he_ missed it: “Hello. Running from Filch and/or Mrs. Norris. See you later.” A slow kiss that lasts for years before he finally touches you, teeth catching the bottom lip and pulling, slowly moving to your ear: “Hello. I want you.” Several thousand kisses on the lips that may or may not bruise your lips that is so tight there is no space between your lips and his; hands everywhere, in a hurry, with no known or particular destination: “Need.” Often followed by the same kiss in other places, simply meaning, “ _Please_.”

This kiss held no words. This kiss said, very clearly, that he needed a distraction from his grief and work wasn’t doing it. His body knew the language. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he couldn’t think when we were shagging. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he didn’t _want_ to think.

I lied back. He followed.

I let him do what he needed to until he realized he still had to think. It wasn’t working. It wouldn’t really. So I pushed him on his back and did my best to blind his mind with an orgasm. He fell asleep. I did, too, eventually.

When I woke, tears in my eyes from seeing Fred’s body for the thousandth time, he had gone downstairs already. And this time, the dream killed me inside.

The last thing I remember was the new part – George’s words.

“It should have been you.”


	15. What If

“Why did you say that to me?”

“What?”

I probably shouldn’t have started this in the middle of the shop – in front of Ron and the customer to whom he was selling a Pygmy Puff – but it was too late for that and the tears that threatened to spill.

“In my dream –”

Ron cut me off: “Well, you can’t properly blame him for that, can you?”

“I – but it’s true.”

“If it’s true, then.” He pulled the customer to another end of the shop, pointing at some chocolates.

George pulled me in close, not quite sure where this was going and therefore not quite wrapping his arms around me as he usually would.

Leading me to his office, he asked, “What are you on about? What did I say?”

“You said…” I was choking back my tears now.

“Would you rather start from the beginning?”

“It’s the same dream. Whenever I sleep, it’s the same dream. It’s awful, George.”

I told him the dream. Every excruciating and ugly little detail. If I’d been in a mind to look at the positive, I might have commended myself for not crying fully – a tear or two that George wiped away with his thumb, but my cheeks were dry by the end.

“But last night I couldn’t wake up and you…”

“It’s okay, love.”

Not once during my story had he gotten upset – not when I told him I thought he would save me and he didn’t, not when I described the way Fred’s body fell like a rag doll, not even when I thought it had been his body.

“You said it should have been me.”

“What should have been you?”

“Fred,” I choked out.

He paused. I raised my eyes to meet his.

“Do you really think that you should have been in his place? Do you think _I_ think that?”

“Why would you? You don’t know that…” I sighed. I hadn’t told him what happened before we separated during the battle at Hogwarts. “I sent Fred with you. He offered to go off with my group so we could make sure to stay together in case anything went wrong. But I told him – I said, ‘You go together. You’re a team.’ And I went off with Lupin and… George, I can’t help but think that, if our places were switched, he would still be alive.”

“But Lupin and Tonks died. Why would it be any different?”

“He pushed me out of the way of a string of Unforgiveable Curses right before they were hit. I was down when they were killed. If I had just gone with you when Fred offered to trade…”

“Don’t do that to yourself. How long have you been thinking this?”

“Since I walked into the Great Hall and saw him.”

He wrapped me up tight, breathing into my hair so he could kiss the top of my head.

“We’ll get through this together, Helen. You and me. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's two routes we could go with this at the point I am in writing. I'd appreciate your comments - would you prefer the longer or shorter route to the end?


	16. Christmas Presents

It was better after that. We started talking about our nightmares and we hung up the pictures from the shoebox. Molly sent more and soon there was a college of moving memories on the living room wall in the flat. George kept one picture in his office; he switched it out when he wanted to look at Fred at a different age.

I asked Molly separately for a picture I knew she had taken. It was the day Fred and George had bought the shop building, smiling widely and waving from an empty, dusty room that would one day be filled with bright colors, jokes, and happy customers.

It was a small photograph from their family camera, not big enough to fill the space behind the counter downstairs.

“ _Engorgio_ ,” I whispered.

It increased in size until it fit the shirt box. I wrapped this one carefully in our shiny silver paper and placed it under the tree. He was ever insistent that the tree go up every year as soon as we took the Halloween decorations down.

And now the countdown: a whole month and a half before Christmas Eve, when we each opened a present of our choice. Fred wanted to start that – the impatient bastard.

I examined the tree while I waited for the most important present.

It was overwhelming and underwhelming at the same time: overpowering the room by its size but all in all incomplete. We’d put up my parents’ box of ornaments, a few joke ornaments from downstairs, and a few handfuls of tinsel, but we couldn’t finish it off properly. It was always Fred’s job to put the star on top. Not that we could have fit a star this year anyway, since George picked a tree so tall it bent over halfway when we conjured it into the flat. And he refused to shrink it down even the slightest bit.

I made my way to the bathroom. Mirrors were okay again. Sometimes he wouldn’t make eye contact with himself but we’d taken down the sheets and towels and that was a big enough step. I made eye contact. I looked different. Older, maybe. Less tired, probably. Calmer, definitely. Happier, every day. The weight of the war was finally beginning to slide off my shoulders, but a new one would take its place. Maybe. Probably.

But things were better. He didn’t smile, really. He never got that full, toothy grin that I missed. It was more of that tight-lipped _almost_ -smile that wanted to be but really wasn’t (represented now by our Christmas tree).

It was time, right? It was time.

I picked up George’s last present.

 _The weight of the war was finally beginning to slide off my shoulders, but a new one would take its place_. Maybe. Probably. Definitely.

The pregnancy test read positive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I'll be dogsitting starting tomorrow and no one's told me the level of maintenance for these puppies so the posting schedule for this weekend is up in the air. But this will give you time to comment with which route you want this story to go; it's really just whether or not I write a few extra chapters. Let me know!


	17. The Trouble of Children in a Post-War World

I was getting nervous as the days ticked down to Christmas. What if George didn’t want a baby? Especially now when he was still not quite over Fred’s death and the rest of the war. How would we explain this to a child?

See these pictures where there’s two of Daddy? Well, your father had a brother who looked just like him, and you, probably. The government ignored a possible threat to our safety and then the threat gained enough power to start a real, blown out, terrifying war that took him from us. We fought at our old school – and you’ll go there, too, and see the place where he died and pass it every day. So many people were taken from us. And now you have to grow up in this post-war world in which everyone tiptoes around the memories of the casualties because none of us can quite bear it for more than a moment.

It’s easy in some ways. But I didn’t want to say it and I wouldn’t make George do it either.

Maybe Uncle Harry could. He’s good at it. Giving talks and all to the public after the war.

I found the picture on the wall of Fred and George as babies. I wanted children so badly. I wanted our children so badly I could taste it and feel it and see it and hear it and – and yet I couldn’t believe I was pregnant. But I was. I’d made a quick appointment with a muggle OB/GYN.

I was really pregnant.

I cried in her office. And laughed and smiled and cried some more. And then I came home, thoughts of telling George racing through my head, and saw him staring at a picture of the family.

He thumbed Fred’s face and sniffled some. I closed the door and he stood abruptly.

“I thought we were talking about our feelings?”

“We are, Hel. We are.”

“What are your feelings right now?”

“I miss him.”

“I know, love. Anything I can do?”

“No, I just want you here. Could we sit on the couch together?”

“Of course.”

“I just want you and me for a couple days. Just you and me.”

“What about the shop?”

“Close it ‘til then.”

“I’ll write a note for the door.”

We didn’t leave the flat for a week at least.


	18. Reflections

I fought the same Death Eater. Still. Every night. And always found Fred’s body. George didn’t say it should have been me anymore. There’s a silver lining everywhere, isn’t there?

Tonight was different.

What was Fred’s body in the cave was harder and heavier, but at least it moved about the same. When I pushed it out at the opening, I saw it was a wooden box; the side paneling flew away as it dropped to the bottom. A tall mirror was all that remained.

It landed softly on the rocks. Engraved at the top was “Mirror of Erised.”

I crawled down to the mirror. Before I could look at the reflection, George came out from the other side of the cavern. He was holding a baby.

“Helen?”

“Is that ours?”

He stood in front of me. I couldn’t quite read his face. So… neutral.

I looked in the mirror. I didn’t see us. George was there, but the baby wasn’t. I wasn’t. George and Fred stood next to each other. George’s reflection smiled.

“You know, I’m sorry about Helen, right?” Fred said. “I shouldn’t have offered to switch with her.”

“But we’re still a team, huh, Freddy?”

“Just two bachelors. No women, no kids. The _good_ life.”

“I’ll always have my brother.”

“Do you ever miss Helen?”

“I guess.”

Oh.

“She wanted babies, didn’t she?”

“Yeah. I don’t.”

“See?” a voice said from behind me.

I jumped. It was the Death Eater. He’d followed me down and now had his wand against my back.

“You’re useless to him. You might as well _die_.”

“Okay,” I whispered.

The reflections waved at me.

“Goodbye,” they said.

“Avada –”

I screamed. I was awake. It was just a dream.

The bed was empty.

George must have gone downstairs already.

The bed was empty.

 _It was just a dream, Helen_.


	19. The Announcement

Christmas Eves before the war were relatively quiet as the boys liked to think they could be dignified for one night and if you’re going to be sarcastically posh for any night it might as well be a holiday. We often went to a nice muggle restaurant – you know, one that set their tables with a white tablecloth and expected you to know all the different forks. Then, we’d come home and each choose a present to open at midnight and talk about our year and family and such.

This Christmas Eve was spent at home eating pub food we’d brought back from the Leaky Cauldron. After dinner, we chose our presents and looked at our mural of moving pictures on the wall. George’s gift to me was a Quidditch memorabilia book of famous Chasers. He opened the picture, gave a sad smile, and hung it up – not satisfied until it was absolutely perfect – while I read the chapter on the Chasers from the Appleby Arrows.

Christmas mornings before the war started by waking to the twins jumping on the bed George and I shared, begging me to get out onto the living room floor with them because “you just can’t open presents without the whole family present, Helen – it’s _wrong_!” And off to the Burrow after until we were tired and couldn’t go on any longer without sleep.

This Christmas morning, I was woken with a kiss behind the ear, a soft “morning, Hel,” and a slow drag of the blanket off our naked bodies. We got semi-dressed and, hand in hand, shuffled out to the living room to sit in front of the tree. We went through the gifts one by one until there was one little, silver-wrapped box sitting on the tree skirt.

I slid it toward him. “This one’s for you, too, Georgie Porgie.”

He slipped off the ribbon and top and unfolded the tissue paper and I thought he was going to drop it for a second.

“I… You’re… This is yours, right?”

“Yes,” I said.

“We’re going to have a baby. You’re pregnant. _We’re going to have a baby_.”

I swallowed a laugh. “Yes, Georgie.”

“We’re going to have a baby.”

He smiled. He actually smiled. A full on, wide grin that showed nearly all his teeth. A true George Weasley Smile.

“Do you… know anything about it – him – her – it?”

“No, love, I thought we’d do that together. I have an appointment with a doctor in a few weeks.”

“Great!” he said, standing straight into a pace across the room. “Wonderful! I can’t wait. This is so exciting. St. Mungo’s, I suppose. Are they good there? No, are they good _enough_? For you? For _our child_? Should we travel somewhere else? We are wizards, after all. We could go to Sweden through the Floo Network. You shouldn’t be apparating right now. I hear Sweden has some good doctors. They’re supposed to be really good, right? Or is it Singapore? I know it started with an S but I wasn’t really paying attention. It was next to an article in the Daily Prophet I was reading and –”

“ _George!_ ”

“Yeah?”

“I have a doctor. She’s wonderful; her father delivered me and they both come highly recommended.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good.”

“There’s something you should know, though.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know how different it will be, but… she’s a muggle.”

“They let a muggle at St. Mungo’s?”

“Dear Merlin, no – she’s a muggle doctor at a muggle hospital in muggle London.”

“Oh. Well, that’s neat.”

“Are you okay with that?”

“Yeah, it’s just… What if something magical happens?”

“I’ve done some research and we can go to a muggle doctor up until the child starts exhibiting magical tendencies. So, she’ll be out of the picture before then anyway. We’ll find a pediatrician at St. Mungo’s after the baby’s born.”

“And… how long until then?”

“About eight months.”

“Can we tell the family later today?”

“If you want to.”

He smiled again.

“I missed that, Georgie.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re _smiling_. I missed it.”

His smile got bigger, toothier. “I love you, Hel.”

***

George kept to his word that I was not allowed to apparate while pregnant. The Knight Bus to Devon wasn’t much better.

Molly could tell something was different immediately. I suppose George couldn’t hide his grin. She didn’t say anything, though. Just waited in an illusion of patience until we were all sat down for Christmas dinner and she turned to George.

“Is something new with the shop?”

“No,” he said, the smile slipping through.

Arthur gave her a look, perhaps catching on to her game. “Helen, anything new with you?”

“Well, yes and no.”

“Yes and no?”

“Can I tell them, Hel?” George asked.

“Go right ahead,” I said.

“She’s pregnant.”

The family gasped as a collective.

“Oh,” Molly sighed happily. “And before Bill and Fleur, too! Our first _grandchild_ , Arthur.”

Arthur wiped a tear from his eye. “I’m so happy for you two. A grandchild. Merlin’s beard!”

***

            As every year, we spent Boxing Day with my parents: Ellie and Dom. They lived over near Brighton. Luckily, George had learned his lesson from the Knight Bus and subsequent puking in a bush; it took nearly an hour for him to come around to Floo Powder from Diagon Alley to a shop down the road that was connected to the Network.

My mother opened the door to our knocks.

“You’re pregnant!”

“ _Mum_ , stop using legilimency on me!”

“I’ve been using it forever – it’s a habit, Helly!”

“Alright, Ellie.” Dad walked into the room. “Don’t outnumber us non-magic folk. There’s only one of us – uh – I always forget that word.”

“Muggles,” we said in unison.

“Alright, so would you like to tell me the muggle way?”

“I’m pregnant, Dad.”

He hugged me, bringing George in with one arm. Mum smiled, her eyes wetting.

“So what’s the… usual way for these things? Will the baby be a wizard for sure or will my muggle part of you take over? Can that happen?”

“Well, it could. He’ll be a squib then.”

“A wha– _he?_ You know already?”

“No, I just used it as a placeholder. I shouldn’t. Sorry. Who knows what we’ll have? Still a few weeks out before we can get that.”

I laughed rather nervously. How long did weeks last? Not technically but – you know how time feels different? Sometimes a week is fast or short or… average. Which did I want?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know we just got back to regularly-scheduled posting, but I'll be focusing on some personal projects while I also get ready to end my internship and return to college. Chapters will still come, but not every day.   
> I thank you for your patience and hope you've enjoyed the story so far!


	20. Baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse the semester worth of absence. Merry Christmas, loves - see you soon.

I could have blinked from the moment I told my parents to now and it would have felt no different. I finally held this beautiful little picture in my hands. Eight weeks. Eight weeks of a baby. It was so tiny.

It. I wished I knew what to call it. Ten more weeks ‘til then.

The only difference was the dreaming. Merlin, the stupid dreaming. Why was I so affected by this – by what was going on in waking life, by the dreams, by all of this? I know Harry had dreams during the war; what if he still has them?

_Owl Harry. Owl Harry. Owl Harry._

“You like our baby, Hel?”

George smiled at me from the kitchen, holding a cup of tea.

“I love our baby, Georgie.”

“Me too.”

He joined my on the couch, arm sliding around my shoulders and head balancing against my temple.

 

_The Sonogram_

A blurry, bubbly, black and white image. Baby. Somewhere a baby. Muddled and tiny, but a baby. I could barely see it.

 

It.

Merlin, ten more weeks.


End file.
